I turn toward Viper, who is still half-sprawled on the canvas, her breathing shallow. It's custom, a show of respect, so I offer my hand, palm up, a silent acknowledgment of the good fight. She ignores it. Blood is oozing from a cut on her forehead and running freely from her nose, painting the canvas red. She scrambles away, refusing to meet my eyes, a portrait of defeated pride. I don't take it to heart; I know exactly how that bitter refusal feels.
The announcer's voice echoes, a thunderclap over the still-roaring crowd, silencing them just enough to be heard. The lights are blazing, focused entirely on the center of the Crucible.
"Ladies and gentlemen… the reign has ended, and a new era begins!"
The Referee grabs my hand—the one that still smells of Viper's sweat and blood—and raises it high above my head. The crowd erupts. It's not just cheering; it's a wave of sound that shakes my bones.
I stand there, battered and victorious.
The Mantle of Gaia is carried forward. It's a belt of pure, shimmering metal, catching the light like molten gold. It's massive, heavy, and the symbolic center of this entire, brutal sport.
The announcer continues, his voice thick with drama. "She came from the frostlands with fire in her veins. She faced the serpent, stared down the storm, and refused to fall. Tonight, she did not just fight... she ascended."
He pauses, drawing out the final moment, the anticipation a physical thing hanging in the air.
"With blood on her knuckles and steel in her soul… she is your new Titan Combat Federation Champion. She is the breaker of legends, the storm reborn, the one they call—TYR!"
The Mantle is lifted over my head and lowered onto my waist. The leather is cool, the metal plate is surprisingly warm. I feel the weight of it, a glorious, satisfying burden.
I stand tall, chest heaving, my eyes blazing as they sweep over the screaming masses. The whole arena is chanting my name now. Tyr! Tyr! Tyr!
A genuine, faint smile touches my lips. In this moment, I am not the challenger, I am not the undercard, and I certainly won't just be known as the daughter of the TCF Hall of Fame legend, Leif Evensen, ever again. I am Tyr. The champion. And I've finally built my own legacy.
I let out a raw, guttural shout of triumph, a final release of the tension that's been coiled in my body for months.
Three days later....
The interior of the van is dark and smells faintly of stale sports tape and cigarette smoke. I am squeezed in between Mac and Luca, the vibrations of the engine a low, constant hum beneath me. Most of my team is out cold, exhausted from the flight and the celebrations. It's just me and the driver, awake in the quiet aftermath.
I stare down at my phone, the screen bathing my face in pale light. I'm looking at the SMS that almost cost me everything: Otherwise.
I had won the belt, but that victory didn't silence the past. I blocked my maternal grandfather's number right after the fight, but it didn't stop the harassment. My mother, my half-brother, and half-sister, they had all surfaced, sending dozens of messages and leaving missed calls over the past two days, a digital siege I had ignored. But today, the phone is silent. No calls. No texts.
The sudden quiet makes me unsettled. It feels heavy, almost threatening.
A literal heaviness settles on my shoulder. I raise my head and find Mac has slumped over, his head resting squarely on my collarbone. I push his head away gently, maneuvering him until his neck is properly supported on the headrest.
Just then, the van brakes hard and comes to a stop.
I look outside. My blood runs cold.
Outside the familiar brick facade of our gym, a crowd of people is gathered. And worse, there's an ambulance parked directly in front, its lights strobing through the dark, silent as a warning.
How I jump out of the car is a blur—a sudden, panicked explosion of motion.
I rush toward the entrance, my adrenaline already boiling. I don't see the ground until my boot connects with shattered glass. It crunches underfoot. The once-pristine gym lobby is now pure chaos, like a violent storm tore right through it. Tables are overturned; papers are scattered.
I barrel inside, the word ripped from my throat. "Dad!"
I find my father in the middle of the mess, being carefully placed onto a stretcher. An oxygen mask covers the lower half of his face, and his eyes are wide, filled with a mixture of pain and distress.
My world collapses around me. The Mantle of Gaia, the fight, the championship—it all vanishes.
"Dad!" I yell again, stumbling forward and reaching out for him.
He sees me, his eyes locking onto mine, and he tries to talk around the mask. "TT, I..."
An emergency responder steps in, firm but calm. "Ma'am, the patient suffered a minor cardiac infarction. We have to take him to the hospital now."
I feel my body tremble, but my voice is steady. "I will go with you."
I turn to Mac, who is instantly by my side, awake and alert, his face grim.
"Go," he says, his hand gripping my shoulder tightly. "I'll take care of things here."
I give him a quick, desperate nod of thanks before spinning on my heel to follow the gurney. The emergency responders are already pushing my father away, the flashing red lights of the ambulance swallowing him whole.
The ward is a landscape of beige and muted noise. I sit beside the high, sterile bed, feeling sullen and utterly useless. The heart monitor to my left beeps a monotonous, irritating rhythm—beep... beep... beep...—a steady reminder of my father's fragility.
The sounds of nurses and doctors float in from the distance, muffled voices that never quite break the silence of our little curtained world. My eyes feel gritty and raw; they are red from unshed tears and lack of sleep. I know I look visibly upset.